The End of the Beginning
by LittleMender
Summary: He didn't realize nothing was as it seemed until it was all over. My first ever fanfic. Please give it a read!
1. Chapter 1

1. ONE FOR THE TEAM

She was being unreasonable. He didn't understand why every little thing sent her off the deep end. Yes, the scheme had been risky. Yes, if she hadn't walked in and stopped him just in time he and Van Pelt would have been in serious danger. But really, that wasn't his fault. If Lisbon had let him come with her, he would have been there when she discovered the suspect was a murderous psycho who had escaped from a mental hospital in another state.

Exasperated with his inability to grasp the weight of the situation as well as to allow her to complete a sentence, Lisbon suddenly reached out and put her hand over his mouth just to make him shut up. Surprised by such an unexpected and un-Lisbonish action, Jane immediately did just that.

"Look, you're lucky I showed up when I did and stopped you. You both could've been killed. This whole thing was a mess, and for once it's not a foregone conclusion that I'm the one that has to take the fall. Now somebody's getting suspended, and it's not going to be me. That leaves you or Van Pelt, and she's too new, too young, and has too much potential to get a blot like this on her record. So you're going to take one for the team—for _your_ team. I'm reporting to Hightower and recommending you be placed on one-week suspension."

The contact startled him. It would have been intimate except that she was standing a full arm's length away from him and practically had to lean forward to make the reach. It was weird. Usually when they engaged in intense conversation of any kind, they seemed to gravitate closer to one another. But lately, she'd been physically distancing herself from him.

When they'd first started working together, they sort of revolved around each other like joint satellites, in proximity but never touching. After several months, they had started making physical contact. She had touched his arm once in a gesture of comfort that he seemed not to notice. Another time she had playfully swatted his chest for patronizing her. The playfulness was completely unexpected, and for some reason it made him feel awkward. Eventually he had hugged her stiffly when she forgave him for insulting the team, and they'd even slow danced. They had gradually come to feel so physically at ease with one another that they practically touched when they walked or stood together, him just behind her leaning down to talk into her ear and her turning to reply to him just over her shoulder.

But for a few weeks now, she had maintained a marked distance. He had noticed she didn't look at him or talk to him as much either. And she more often took Cho with her to question witnesses and run down leads. It had started before his run-in with Red John. Before his date—or rather non-date—with Kristina. He couldn't connect it to any event or altercation. She wasn't angry or uncomfortable. What interaction they had wasn't stiff or stilted. It was just weird. Apparently his ruminating had caused an overlong delay in his reaction to what she was saying.

"Jane?" She prompted, hand still covering his mouth. "Do you understand?"

He nodded against her touch. When she was sure of his agreement, she withdrew her hand and headed to the director's office. Fifteen minutes later, after Van Pelt's "See you Monday!" Jane was heading down in the elevator, clutching his journal and minus his ID card.

For the next week, he studied his journal and went through the bits of Red John files he'd managed to purloin from the CBI. On Wednesday, he received a copy of an update on Kristina's missing persons file from Lisbon. There wasn't much to it—no more than he expected anyway. Still, it was nice of her to think of him and keep him in the loop.

He felt a twinge of regret for not extending the same consideration to her about the night he had come face to face with Red John.

_"You OK?" She asked._

_"Yeah, I'm fine." He used her own pat response._

_"You're sure he said nothing . . ." she asked dubiously. " . . . Nothing at all?"_

_A short sigh and a light smile. "Nothing," he affirmed quietly. She left him sitting alone on his couch, knowing he lied to her and that he may never tell her the truth about it. Later he sat under the bloody smiley face in his house and pondered the meaning of what Red John had indeed said to him, a quote from a poem by William Blake:_

"_Tiger, tiger, burning bright_

_in the forests of the night,_

_What immortal hand or eye_

_could frame thy dreadful symmetry?"_

But he didn't tell her. He hoarded anything related to Red John, keeping it to himself in the desperate belief that it would bring him closer to his objective without interference from the bureau or—what was most likely—from her. It was all his. Sometimes part of him wished he didn't feel that it was all he had.


	2. Chapter 2

2. SECRETS OF THE SCU SISTERHOOD

He never thought he would be so glad to see Monday. He always was after a weekend without a case, but an entire week had been too much. It was unbelievably boring. And . . . empty. He was glad to be back. When he heard that they had closed two new cases as well as an ongoing while he was gone, he didn't let them know that he was surprised—and a bit uneasy—that they'd done so well without him.

Upon reentering the workplace and getting immediately reacquainted with his couch, he realized two things: something was different about the atmosphere of the bullpen, and there was a new agent temporarily assigned to the unit. He had seen Elizabeth Tierney a few weeks ago with a group of new employees going through orientation. He remembered her because Kristina Frye had approached her and apparently done a reading on her. Her expression had given no indication of what Kristina said, but after the self-proclaimed psychic turned away, the new employee had watched her with a questioning gaze.

Agent Tierney had been assigned to his mostly unused desk, located near his couch. Her back was to the wall, giving her a bird's eye view of the bullpen and Lisbon's office. They had no case at the moment, and his close proximity to her as well as her complete disinterest in him afforded Jane the perfect opportunity to covertly observe her.

Judging by her speech pattern, he guessed she was originally from the Midwest but had spent several years on the East coast. She was about fifty years old and was in pretty good shape. But the combination of her thin frame, pale skin, the prescription medication she took twice a day and the well-made but mousy brown wig she wore gave her away as a recent cancer patient. She was on loan from somewhere to help catch up on a backlog of paperwork and case files that needed to be cataloged. She'd probably been assigned the desk job during her recuperation to keep up her insurance qualification. He thought her situation was sad and she was probably brave—that's what one usually thought of such situations and people in them—and then, finding little more to interest him, closed his eyes and dozed off.

When he went to lunch with Rigsby, he got a few more details on Agent Tierney. As he suspected, she was a survivor of a fairly recent battle with cancer. Prior to that she had worked for the Federal government in some capacity—Rigsby hadn't bothered to read her file—and had ended up at the CBI in a soft desk job. She got along well with the boss and Van Pelt, and she and Cho shared an affinity for reading.

He also learned one of the recently closed cases had brought Lisbon back into Walter Mashburn's sphere, and that Mashburn apparently still found her "damaged intensity" attractive as he'd called her several times the previous week. Jane was amused at the thought of the thrill-seeking multi-millionaire pursuing Lisbon and then furrowed his brow. It wasn't like Mash to pursue a woman outright. Fleetingly, he wondered if he should have been there to run interference for her. He chuckled to himself. No one knew better than he Lisbon's ability to hold her ground. Or how angry she would have been that he thought she needed his protection.

When they returned to the office, Jane sat in Lisbon's office for a while and tried to get a rise out of her over the Mashburn situation. When she wouldn't be baited, he returned to his couch. As if on cue, the phone on Tierney's desk rang.

"CBI, Special Crimes Unit . . . No. I'm sorry Mr. Mashburn, but Agent Lisbon isn't available. . . Yes, I'll tell her that you called." Click.

Just like that, smooth as silk. So. Lisbon was having her outside calls screened, and Tierney was delegated the job of keeping Mash at bay. When her eyes slid sideways towards Grace and the two women smirked at one another, he realized there may be more to the temp than met the eye.

At mid-afternoon, the time Lisbon usually started to fade from too much mind-numbing computer work and Jane usually moved to her office in an attempt to alleviate their joint boredom, Van Pelt reached into the small cooler at her feet and took out a bottle of cherry cola and carried it into Lisbon's office with a CD mix she'd obviously burned over the weekend. Without a word, she placed both items on the desk in front of the senior agent and exited the office, pulling the door closed behind her. Lisbon smiled after her, placed the CD into her disk drive and, popping the cap off the bottle, took a long pull of the drink and laid her head back on her headrest with a look of pure contentment.

There was something up with the women in the office. There was a shift in the dynamic between Lisbon and Grace, and Tierney probably had something to do with it. Cho and Rigsby didn't seem to notice. Jane was torn between liking the air of humor and ease and the disappointment of feeling that he was completely on the outside of it.

Tuesday morning passed much as Monday had until just before noon when Van Pelt pulled some information that was helpful toward closing an ongoing case. There was a lot to go through, and Tierney joined her in unraveling the financials and phone records belonging to a person of interest. They took what they had to Lisbon, and in short order, she was able to put together a compelling argument for a search warrant of the now suspect's home. By mid-afternoon they had made an arrest and Cho had obtained a confession.

Jane was so bored and felt so unnecessary that if it hadn't been for the fact that he liked the sounds and the feel of the place, he would have wondered why he'd been so eager to get back.


	3. Chapter 3

**I didn't see anywhere that disclaimers are necessary, but since others use them, I believe I'll say that I don't own The Mentalist or any of its characters. I am, however, 100% responsible for the existence of Agent Elizabeth Tierney. More dialogue in this chapter, and the story will continue to unfold. Please review!**

3. BY THE PRICKING OF MY THUMBS

Wednesday was slow, and Jane was beginning to hope for anything that would relieve his boredom when a series of surprising and somewhat confusing events took place.

First, at precisely 12 noon, an instant message popped up on both Van Pelt's and Tierney's computers. They each smiled as they responded. Then they, with Lisbon, logged off their computers and grabbed their purses and left for lunch without so much as a glance at the guys.

Jane didn't know that they had gone to lunch the previous Wednesday at Tierney's suggestion to a Tandoori place around the corner to get away from the usual menu of tacos, burgers and pizza preferred by Cho and Rigsby. The older woman had hoped that away from the office and without a case for the moment, they would be able to shed their work personalities. Elizabeth had tentatively called the two younger women by their first names, relieved when they followed suit. They sat outside, and Lady Gaga blared from a stereo somewhere, providing background and prompting conversation about their tastes in music. As Teresa sipped her cherry cola she admitted she liked to clean (and dance) to the Spice Girls, run to Katy Perry and relax (mostly in the bath) to Citizen Cope. Grace admitted she liked Taylor Swift and Demi Lovato ("What? They have good music!"), and her current favorites were "Over" by Keisha Cole and Colbie Caillat's "I Never Told You". The other two women offered silent sympathy for what they realized was lingering sadness over her recent breakup. Elizabeth liked blues, and confessed to a weakness for Amy Winehouse, especially "Rehab" ("What does that say about me?"). They then moved on to talking about their male co-workers. Without being too mean but just mean enough, they had laughed so hard at times, there were tears in their eyes. Having enjoyed spending the time together, they agreed to an every-Wednesday, women-only lunch.

The next thing happened shortly after they returned. Jane could tell they'd enjoyed themselves and thought if Tierney's presence could do that for Lisbon and ease her into a warmer relationship with Grace, it was a good thing. All three were still smiling as they shifted back into work mode when Tierney's phone rang.

"CBI, Serious Crimes Unit . . . Yes, she is. Just a minute." Putting the call on hold, she buzzed Lisbon. "Virgil Minelli is on line one for you."

Jane immediately swung his legs around and pulled himself off the couch, reaching for the phone.

"Good ol' Virg! I wonder what he has to say for himself!"

Before he could lift the receiver, Agent Tierney's hand lowered over it.

"I'm sure if he wanted to say it to you, he would have asked for you."

Jane's look of cheerful anticipation froze as he studied the woman's face. He saw purpose mixed with a bit of amusement and a hint of . . . a threat? It was the first time she'd actually looked him in the eye, and he was momentarily discomfited by the feeling that she had taken his measure and been less than impressed.

Jane realized a lot had happened during his suspension and that he needed to get up to speed. But it was what happened later that really threw him.

Returning from the break room with his mid-afternoon cup of tea, Jane approached his couch to find Lisbon reading from his slim volume of William Blake. She was embarrassed at being caught out and apologized, saying that she'd only picked it up to read through one of her favorite poems.

"Which one is it?" He didn't know she like poetry.

"Tiger, Tiger", she responded, still looking at the page in front of her so she missed the shift in his expression.

"Why that one in particular?" he asked, throat tight.

She ducked her head slightly.

"When I was at the academy in San Francisco, one of my instructors called me 'Tiger'. The nickname stuck, and the guys in my training unit made it a running gag to present me with anything having to do with tigers. Stuffed tigers, tiger-print belts and sneakers—you name it. For my birthday, they all memorized 'Tiger, Tiger' and recited it for me."

"I remember reading about that", Van Pelt spoke up. "It was mentioned in the first article the San Francisco papers did on you when you were SFPD."

"Yeah, it was quite the joke." Lisbon answered.

"That's what he said to me." the words slipped from his mouth in a whisper.

"What?"

"Red John. I told you he didn't say anything to me that night, but he did. He recited the first stanza of 'Tiger, Tiger'."

She froze, still holding the book and gazing unseeing at it for a moment. Then, she calmly handed it to him and turned to walk away. He followed, gently taking hold of her elbow.

"Lisbon. I should have told you. I didn't know that it could have anything to do with you."

By the time he got the words out, they had reached the door to her office. She stopped and turned slowly to face him, looking directly into his eyes for the first time in weeks. She stood there for only an instant, then stepped back into her office and quietly closed the door in his face. He had expected to see fear in her eyes. He knew that's what she had to have seen in his. Fear for her. He was stunned that he'd only read resignation and hurt. Very, very deep hurt.

He stood outside her door utterly disconcerted. Did she not grasp the significance of what he'd just told her? Did she not realize that she was now directly in Red John's sights? He didn't want to contemplate that his dishonesty seemed to be more devastating for her than knowing the danger she was in. She should be yelling at him. Someone should be barking orders and sending agents scurrying. And there should be more guns. Lots and lots of guns.

He turned on his heel and moved quickly to Hightower's office.

"Madeleine?" his voice low but intense. "We have a situation that requires your immediate attention."

She paused in her writing, pen hovering over the paper before her. She was almost amused. She had never heard Patrick sound so serious and official except when he was mocking people who were serious and official. Curious as to what had put him in such a state, she decided to go along.

"All right, Patrick. Suppose you tell me about this situation that you think _requires_ my attention," she said with only a hint of sarcasm.

"Lisbon's in grave danger. The night I saw Red John, he quoted the first stanza of a poem. I've just learned it was a direct reference to Lisbon. He's after her. It was his way of letting me know."

Hightower went stone faced, suddenly unreadable.

"You should have told us, Patrick. It was a mistake in judgment on your part that could have proven dangerous for a _colleague_." She emphasized the last word in such a way that it caused him to wince, as if she thought that's all Lisbon was to him. While he had initially viewed the members of the team only as cogs in the machine he would use to find Red John, they had since become more than that. Though he didn't dwell on it, he was aware that they were the first and, perhaps, only friends he'd ever had, especially Lisbon. They had taken him in, and he knew his importance to them went beyond his usefulness in closing cases. Hightower had once hinted that she thought he and Lisbon were too close. He supposed it was reasonable for her to assume that, in light of his recent behavior, exactly the opposite might be true. She returned to her task.

"Measures are in place to keep all of our agents safe, Patrick. You don't need to be overly concerned for Agent Lisbon."

"But she needs—"

"I'm well aware of what is needed, Patrick. You can go now."

Shocked, he turned and left her office. What was wrong with people? Lisbon didn't seem concerned about the danger she was in, and now Hightower was oblivious as well. He pondered this as he slowly wandered back to the bullpen, and then it hit him. Neither woman had seemed surprised to learn Lisbon was a target. They had already known that Red John had his sights set on her. Was that why she had been distancing herself from him? Was Cho's accompanying her out of the office one of the measures Hightower was taking? His curiosity was further fuelled by the realization that neither of them had known about the poem. Then how did they know Lisbon was in danger? How had Red John threatened her? And why hadn't he been told? He returned to his couch, lying at an angle that allowed him to keep her office in his line of sight, wondering just how he should approach her and waiting for the others to leave.

Early that evening, just after Rigsby and Van Pelt left, Lisbon turned out her office lights, locked her door and, after saying good night to Jane, headed toward the elevator. He stood to follow her, questioning the wisdom of her leaving the building alone. But before he could move forward, Cho and Tierney stood from their respective desks and moved toward the exits, Tierney following Lisbon to the elevator and Cho toward the stairs. Obviously, they were both part of Hightower's protective measures. Of course, Cho was a logical choice for her security, but what was Tierney's part in it?

Leaving her protection to the experts for the time being, he moved to Lisbon's office door and picked the lock. Upon entering, he performed the same action on her file cabinet where he knew she kept the personnel files. Elizabeth Tierney was a widow who had served as an analyst for the FBI for fifteen years. Her file was replete with commendations as well as numerous forms that provided mundane information. She was granted medical leave when she was diagnosed with cancer. After chemotherapy, her doctor had pronounced her to be in remission, and thanks to letters of recommendation from her superiors, she had applied to and been hired to fill a position at the CBI. The file stopped there.

Putting everything back in its place and locking cabinet and door, Jane made his way next to Tierney's workspace. He tried and failed opening the files on her computer, unable to even log on. He searched the desk drawers, finding a rather odd assortment of items, including blank CDs, a magazine for a Glock, a few office supplies and a basket of snacks, mostly Rigsby's favorites. He hadn't expected the agent to leave anything of significance in unlocked drawers, but as he simultaneously pushed back and swiveled in the chair, his thigh brushed against something. Reversing his direction, he bent forward at the waist as far as he could and turned his head to look at what was on the underside of the desk cutout. He was astounded to see a gun holster mounted there. He remembered then that when anyone approached the bullpen or Lisbon's office, Tierney would reach under the desk in what seemed a benign and relaxed manner, giving no indication that she was grasping a weapon that she was prepared to fire. He was certain her personnel file wasn't telling the whole story.

Ordinarily, he would have relished the idea of solving this mystery. It would have made for a great game. Lisbon's safety was anything but.


	4. Chapter 4

4. JANE IN WONDERLAND

Teresa Lisbon approached work the next day with trepidation. She felt safe through the night, knowing the house where Cho and Tierney guarded her was completely off of Red John's radar. But she had seen the look on Jane's face when the door closed between them and again when she left for the night. She knew he wouldn't let things lie. She was confident that he had snooped through every inch of her office and the bullpen as far as his dubious talents would take him. He would want to talk, and she braced herself for the coming storm. She was by nature a suspicious person, and her system went into overdrive when she entered the office to find Jane acting utterly indifferent to her presence. She was almost relieved when, as soon as she was seated at her desk waiting for her computer to load, Jane walked in and, taking the seat opposite her, proceeded to stare at her intently.

"What is it Jane?" she asked without looking away from her computer. He didn't answer, and she knew he had no intention of doing so. She finally gave in to his silent demand and faced him squarely.

"When did you know he was after you?"

His night had been spent in restless and unsatisfying contemplation of her situation, and he didn't care to beat around the bush. He was immediately on the offensive, waiting for her to come up with a lie, ready to see through her.

"The week you were out on suspension. He sent a letter threatening me, or rather threatening you through me, referencing our . . . friendship. It went to the AG's office, and he insisted I have protection. He knew Agent Tierney's background, and brought her in to work with Cho."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What could you have done about it?"

He really hadn't expected that. It was an old ploy—answering a question with a question. But he wasn't prepared for the question she posed. She sat watching him, waiting for an answer. He didn't have one. They continued their staring contest. She was immovable and calm. He didn't like it that his own tension seemed to be mounting. This is not how he had planned for this conversation to play out. Realizing honesty was his best option, he surprised himself by heading in that direction so readily. For him it was the path least taken.

"I guess I couldn't have done anything. I'm worried about you, Lisbon. Truly." He paused. "Can _you_ think of anything I can do to help you?"

She blinked several times rapidly in succession then looked down as she chewed the inside of her lip. They were both surprised by and uncomfortable with the fact that she was trying not to cry. She looked back up at him, her jade eyes bright with the unshed tears, and gave him a small but genuine smile.

"Nothing comes to mind. You don't need to worry. And thank you. I wish I could have told you."

He couldn't help but smile back. "So, Cho and—", he started but was cut off abruptly by her sudden sharp intake of breath and smoothly took the sentence in another direction. "—the others are probably in by now. I guess I'll make more coffee."

She visibly relaxed. "That's a good idea. Thanks, Jane."

As he left her office, he couldn't help but wonder what the hell was going on. It was apparent she didn't want her protection detail mentioned in her office, but why? As he absentmindedly made the coffee, he wasn't surprised that his mind echoed Alice's observation. Curiouser and curiouser.


	5. Chapter 5

5. LISBON CONTEMPLATED

The next day played out much the same as the preceding ones had and the next two weeks followed suit. Lisbon did field work in Cho's company, now usually with Jane in tow, although she still wasn't talking to him very much and avoided eye contact as much as possible. She left every evening at a different time, Cho and Tierney's departure revolving around hers. He could tell Tierney was doing extra computer work. She would periodically pause in her—what Jane could only assume was mind numbing—data input to follow up on a computer prompt, often downloading whatever she was investigating to flash drive. The flash drive made its way into her bag and then to wherever she and Cho were taking Lisbon every night. Jane wondered exactly where that was. He knew the three wouldn't tell, and he thought about trying to follow them, but he knew Red John sometimes kept tabs on his whereabouts and didn't want to put her in any more danger.

Cases took on a mundane flavor to Jane, the giant shadow of Red John's threat always looming in the background. He didn't like the distance between himself and Lisbon and thought he should stay as close to her as possible during their working hours. It was more important to him than ever for her to know she could trust him. He kept nothing from her, always letting her in on his schemes, surprised at her willingness to join him in them. A couple of times, Hightower had gone on the warpath, but forewarned was forearmed, and forearmed Lisbon was a Lisbon with the upper hand, making her more formidable against her superior officer than he'd ever known her to be. He commented on it once to Cho and was stunned by his friend's insight.

"Lisbon doesn't trust your words or actions, Jane. But she does trust your intentions and motives. You should realize how huge that is. She's known lots of people who seemed to say and do the right things, but it didn't take her long to learn that she couldn't trust what drove them. Since I've known you, you've operated under the concept that getting forgiveness is easier than getting permission. You need to see that if she trusts what's going on inside, 99% of the time you've got her permission up front."

He'd told her once a couple of years ago that he'd learned a lot from her. He'd even thanked her, albeit in a patronizing way. But he hadn't even learned enough to realize how much he _didn't_ know. He felt stupid and like he'd wasted precious time with her. He'd been so intent on reading her that he hadn't taken the time to see her or to really know her. He'd gotten in her way and held her back. He'd made her seem less to other people than she was. He had underestimated her and helped others to do the same. And she had always forgiven him. He was always glad of the forgiveness but never grateful, as if it were somehow his due. The part of him that was left over from what he was before saw her forgiveness as a weakness. Now he saw it for what it was . . . grace. He had always thought that for all her vulnerability and insecurity, Teresa Lisbon was one of the strongest people he'd ever met. Now, in comparison to everyone else, he thought she might be the only _truly_ strong person he knew. She kept everything and everyone together. Even when it tore her apart. He admired her, and admiration for another person was foreign to him.

He felt an overwhelming need to tell her these things. On an impulse, he chose to do so as they were walking away from a crime scene where the victim had been found at the bottom of a septic tank.

"Teresa, I need to tell you something . . ." He ran into her when she stopped abruptly and turned to face him.

"What?" she asked, sounding alarmed. He drew back slightly.

"Nothing. I—I just want to tell you something."

"You called me 'Teresa'. You never call me 'Teresa' unless you're about to say or do something that's sure to embarrass and humiliate me. So please, just tell me." She was whining now, her brow furrowed and her eyes closed. And she may have stamped her foot a little.

Jane's very touching speech went out the window, and he threw back his head and laughed at her. Lisbon eyes opened wide in surprise then quickly narrowed into a glare. Without warning, her fist flew straight out in a rabbit punch to Jane's stomach, knocking the breath out of him. She turned on her heel and stomped away toward the SUV. Cho brushed past him following her quickly retreating form.

"Did you see that?" Jane sputtered.

"Yeah, I did." Cho replied and kept moving. "You're not gonna cry, are you?"

"Not until I get in the car." Jane answered.

He staggered up the hill after the agent, rubbing his injured torso. He barely made it into the SUV before Lisbon gunned the engine and sped away.

He'd been lying on his couch since they got back to the office. Thanks to the silence that reigned in the SUV on the return trip, Lisbon had been able to mentally go over the crime scene and had come up with an impressive list of orders for everyone on the team. She was holed up in her office running computer searches and putting together the case file as information came in. Jane was lying on his couch in reverse of his usual direction so that he had a sliver of a view into Lisbon's office—just enough to be able to see her at her desk. Through partially closed eyes, Jane noticed she kept throwing worried glances in his direction. Whether she was worried that she had hurt him or that he was still brewing trouble, he wasn't sure. He decided to put her out of her misery on both counts. He stood and walked to her office, slowing his pace to look as if he were just wandering and smoothing his vest as he entered. He took the chair across from her and looked at her with his lips pulled into a straight line as if he was trying not to smile. She made three swift key strokes and her eyes shifted sideways to look at him.

"I solemnly swear I am _not_ up to no good."

She turned to face him and blinked like an owl. He fought the urge to laugh at her again.

"You go to the movies?" she asked, surprised.

He gave into the urge. "No, I rent DVDs. And read books."

"You've read Harry Potter?" A half smile quirked one side of her mouth, and her voice had that high, husky tone it took on when she was amused.

"Well, . . . yeah . . . does that surprise you?" he said as he gave a slow, exaggerated nod of the head.

She smiled outright at him and chuckled. "Actually, no. No, it doesn't."

She turned back to her computer screen, and he eventually migrated to her couch. He drifted in and out of shallow sleep, not opening his eyes even when he heard her getting ready to leave for the evening.

"Good night, Teresa Lisbon. Take care."

"Good night, Jane."

He breathed easy hearing Tierney's and then, a minute later, Cho's steps follow hers.

**Thanks so much to everyone for their positive comments and to Jisbon4ever, lucyyh and Jbon for their encouraging words. More plot in the next chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

6. DARK HORSES

The following Monday, Agent Tierney called in sick. She would be out the whole week. Jane hoped she wasn't suffering from a relapse. He hadn't really gotten any closer to her, but she was keeping Lisbon safe, and that made her important as far as he was concerned.

On Thursday, Lisbon called in sick and would be out for the remainder of the week. Cho was still coming into the office, and although Jane couldn't understand what was going on, he trusted both agents to know what they were doing. When Cho took a quiet moment to relay a message from Lisbon that everything was all right and not to worry, he secretly blessed her for knowing him so well.

Both women were back at the start of the next week. Jane couldn't help being concerned for Lisbon. She looked pale and unnerved—not at all her usual self. She mostly avoided the team except for necessary communication regarding the job. Tierney kept a concerned eye on her charge at all times. When Jane questioned Cho about it, he learned Cho hadn't been on detail that weekend. Cho said she probably hadn't completely recovered from a virus she'd picked up the week before. When the agent inquired after her health, she told him she was fine, and he could tell from her manner he shouldn't push it. The thing that most concerned Jane was that she was completely avoiding him.

At 11:20 a.m. Lisbon's phone rang. She stood as she listened, seemingly dumbstruck. She walked out into the bullpen and addressed the team in a forced voice.

"We have a case. It's Red John . . . He's killed Dr. Steiner."

They all sat in stunned silence. No one had actually liked the coroner. His people skills were non-existent, he covertly ogled the female agents, wasn't particularly helpful at crime scenes and seemed to delight in holding up his reports for as long as possible. But he had worked with the CBI for years. Lisbon wanted the whole team at the crime scene, and they all moved quietly to the elevators.

Sacramento PD, along with their medical examiner, was already on the scene. A neighbor had heard Steiner's cat wailing. Knowing she hadn't seen the obsessively punctual coroner leave for work and fearful something was wrong, she called the police. When no one answered the door and Dr. Steiner didn't pick up his work phone, they entered his house and found the body in the bedroom.

The ME estimated that due to lividity, liver temp and rigor, Steiner had been dead about 48 to 72 hours, approximately since Friday night. Jane idly wondered why Steiner himself had never been able to deliver information in such a timely manner.

The house was pristine. Steiner had kept it immaculate, almost obsessively so. As far as they could tell, there was nothing out of place except for the gruesome vignette in the bedroom. Once the team made their observations and found nothing helpful (exactly as expected), they decided to head back to the office to await the Crime Scene Unit's report. Everyone was quiet, but Cho could tell Lisbon was mentally chewing on something. In a rare move, he elected to ride shotgun. Curiosity kept Jane from going into the dark musings that usually carried him away during a Red John case. Did Cho think the danger for Lisbon was greater or that this murder was directly connected to her? When her second-in-command spoke without turning toward her, Jane realized Cho had sat up front so he could engage her in quiet conversation.

"What are you thinking, Boss?"

"I'm thinking about the possible reasons why Red John would kill our coroner."

"You think Steiner had something?"

"It would be like him to hold onto it for a while if he did. Or maybe to not realize what he had."

"How many Red John cases did Steiner handle?"

"All of them for the last three years."

Cho's brow furrowed. "_All_ of them? For three years?"

"The AG believed his slower, more methodical manner would be more likely to uncover any evidence left behind."

"Who were the coroners on Red John cases before that, and where are they now?"

"Steiner has been a coroner with CBI for eleven years. But until three years ago, there were two others that worked Red John cases: William Stacey and Randall Joyne. Stacey joined the CBI in 1995, and in 1998 he caught the first case. Eighteen months later he committed suicide. Steiner was hired out of Lincoln, Nebraska as his replacement. Joyne was new here when the murders started—just transferred from San Antonio's CSU. He handled the Jane case. Three years ago Joyne died in an automobile accident."

"Sounds like a lot of bad luck for coroners associated with Red John."

"Maybe luck had nothing to do with it." Lisbon replied. Both agents were quiet for the remainder of the trip. Jane was impressed and a little surprised by Lisbon's thorough knowledge of the timeline as it related to the coroners. He had pretty much memorized the Red John files, but he didn't have near the command of the details she had just demonstrated.

Once back at the office, Lisbon made her way straight to Hightower's office. When she exited twenty minutes later, Hightower was barking orders to her assistant to check with personnel to see if any other employees were absent without calling in and to place a call to the Federal Building in DC. In short order, it was learned that the second-in-command of the CSU, Gordon Fargo, was AWOL. Rigsby and two other CBI agents were dispensed to his address and found the house in a mess. The closet was empty, and the dresser drawers had been cleaned out except for an ancient and empty prescription bottle for a very strong anti-psychotic.

A small portal in the back of the closet, apparently left open in Fargo's haste, led to a secret room that held newspaper clippings as well as crime scene photos and other objects, including jewelry and car keys. News articles about Jane's family and Lisbon's days at the SFPD were mixed with photographs of the two of them working Red John crime scenes. The patterning in the layer of dust on a bookshelf was evidence that whatever volumes it once held had been removed. Back in Fargo's bedroom, Rigsby spotted a book on the floor partially hidden beneath the bed. It was a journal dating to last year. It was possible it was one of a series, and that's what had been removed from the shelf. Fargo had probably unknowingly dropped the journal in his hurry to flee.

By 9:00 a.m. the next morning, three of the FBI's top forensic pathologists and their best Crime Scene Unit were downstairs in the morgue and forensic labs combing through the files of every Red John case as well as the newly discovered journal. It didn't take them long to see that there were major discrepancies in the files from the late coroner and former crime scene investigator. The autopsies had been incomplete and sloppy. Some of the CSU reports were flawed as well. If Red John had been arrested and tried, the evidence would never have held up in court. Any defense attorney worth their salt would have had their own forensic experts investigate the findings, and they would have torn the case to shreds. The discoveries left everyone at the CBI reeling.

Then, two days later, Kristina Frye's body was found.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for your encouragement. To , lucyyh, Jisbon4ever, lisbon69, BelleLee and Jbon for your kind and helpful reviews. And to all who have added this little story to their alerts.**

**Dr. Steiner is the annoying coroner in Episode 2 of Season 2, "The Scarlet Letter", that Jane describes as a horse's ass. All victim histories and "real" names are from my own imagination.**

**If Lisbon and Jane seem to be a little out of character in the next few chapters, it's because I have a fondness for them and would like to see them grow. I know Bruno Heller et al have to keep them in check somewhat, but sometimes I'm impatient with how they are being held back. This story is about their friendship, not a romance-although I think that would be lovely-and I've written them the way I hope they would turn out.**

7. WILL THE REAL VICTIM PLEASE STAND UP?

Kristina's body was found in the bedroom of her house. Once again, the team made the trek to a crime scene and listened as a Sacramento police officer ran down the preliminary facts.

"A heating and air-conditioning guy shows up for a routine service call and finds the door standing open. The guy gives a shout, walks in, calling as he goes. He finds the body laid out just like you see her on the bed. Like she's takin' a nap."

The team moved around the room, mostly silent except to call attention to pertinent observations; the first being the lack of blood and red smiley that they all would have expected. Jane stood and stared at the body until, prodded by Lisbon, he began to examine the area.

"Anything?" She asked, almost afraid to disturb him. When he looked at her and only shook his head, she didn't miss the hollow, woeful look in his eyes. Except for the blue discoloration of her lips and extremities, there was nothing to suggest Kristina Frye was in any state other than peaceful slumber.

The bedroom was neat, but the rest of the house was in disarray—quite different from its usual Zen-like state—but there were no signs of a struggle. A member of the CSU showed Lisbon a small duffle bag he had retrieved from the basement that contained journals resembling the one found at Gordon Fargo's abandoned house. When the team was finished making their observations, they left the scene to one of the FBI medical examiners and CSU. Lisbon tugged at Jane's sleeve, drawing him to walk with her. This time no one spoke on the return trip.

Now that Kristina was a murder victim and not just a missing person, the SCU was given free rein in investigating her death. Once Hightower was satisfied with Lisbon's guarantee that she could keep Jane in check, they delved into Frye's recent life—including financials, phone records, computer contents, and client list. Jane listened as discussion and activity swirled around him, aware that each team member was periodically darting anxious glances his way, waiting for the usual and inevitable emotional tailspin.

He had been on his best behavior for weeks. Out of concern for Lisbon's safety, he had let Cho and Tierney handle things, keeping himself as close to her as she would allow. They hadn't talked about it since their initial conversation on the subject, but he feared that Red John was targeting Lisbon because of him and not just because she was lead investigator on Red John cases. He and Lisbon were only friends, but there was no denying that if he had to name any one person as the most important in his life, it would be her.

He was trying to maintain his equilibrium in all of this, but Kristina's death had him completely baffled. His usual method was to formulate his own theory then concoct and carry out a crazy, often dangerous yet effective scheme. But now he didn't know where to start. He had accepted that he couldn't blame himself or anyone else if Kristina met her fate at Red John's hands. He had warned her, and although Lisbon and Van Pelt probably thought they should have done more to protect her, Kristina had made the choice to leave. He truly regretted her death, but he had thought that if it happened, it would involve Red John's patent style and garish art work. He had no idea what any of this meant. His suspicion was that Red John may be tying up loose ends before his ultimate kill. When he shared that thought with Cho and Tierney, the three of them agreed that at least one of them should be with Lisbon at all times. He then took up near permanent residence on her couch.

Hightower had given orders that all reports were to come directly to her. When she entered Lisbon's office carrying Kristina Frye's preliminary autopsy report she seemed to be in shock. She barely nodded in Jane's direction before laying the folder open in front of Lisbon and dropping wordlessly into the chair on the other side of the desk. Lisbon read, her eyes roving back and forth across the lines of information on Frye's height, weight, time and cause of death. Sometime late Saturday or early Sunday her neck had been snapped. Then her reading came to a grinding halt. She backed up and reread, then reread again.

Kristina had a tattoo. It was 17.9 millimeters in diameter and located just over the pulse point on the right side of her groin. It was a tiny simple design about twenty years old. A perfect red smiley.

Jane had walked over to stand behind Lisbon's chair, reading over her shoulder. He couldn't tell if the unpleasant buzzing sensation he was experiencing was from the blood rushing to his head or away from it. The room seemed to close in on him for a moment, and he was vaguely aware that Hightower looked like a wind-up doll that had run down. Lisbon rose, walked to the bullpen and ordered a track on Frye's whereabouts and activities for the past twenty years. As she walked back to her office, she could see Hightower had not moved. Stepping into the room, she realized Jane was gone.

Working motor vehicle, post office and tax data bases, they discovered that for the past twelve years, Kristina Frye had lived in the Sacramento area. Before that she lived for six years in Lincoln, Nebraska and before that, at least three years in Austin, Texas. Grace remembered seeing something from Austin Community College among her things and called there to get information from the registrar.

"Hi. This is Agent Grace Van Pelt with the Serious Crimes Unit of the California Bureau of Investigation. I'm looking for information on a woman who may have attended there nearly twenty years ago named Kristina Frye. . . Oh, really? . . . That's great. Thanks."

While the registrar looked for the records, Grace told the others that the woman on the line had been a student there at about the same time Kristina may have attended. She had taken a job on campus after her graduation and eventually moved into her current position. Kristina's name wasn't familiar, but once she saw her student photo, she was sure she'd remember her.

"Yes, I'm still here . . . I'm sorry, what? . . . What about the photograph, ma'am? . . . What was that name again?"

Grace hurriedly wrote down the information the registrar gave her.

"Yes, I know . . . No, that's all right, I understand. We'll get the warrant as soon as possible and get back to you."

She hung up and turned excitedly to the waiting team.

"The registrar checked the photo and said it wasn't Kristina Frye. She didn't remember Frye, but she definitely remembered the young woman in the picture. Her name was Marlene Witsett. Judging from the sound of her voice, I don't think the memory was a pleasant one. She had no idea how the photograph made its way into Frye's file. She's willing to help all she can, but she says she can't release the records without a warrant."

"Working on it." Hightower called out as she walked past the bullpen toward her office. In thirty minutes, Grace faxed the warrant to the registrar and shortly received an e-mail with both Frye's and Witsett's academic records attached. The photo identified by the registrar as that of Witsett was definitely the likeness of a twenty year-old version of a woman they had all known as Kristina Frye.

The complexities of the case were compounding faster than they could absorb them. Lisbon ordered Rigsby and Cho to help Grace go through the records and build a history for both women.

"So we're working Kristina Frye's case now—' Cho's question was more of a statement. "I mean the other Kristina Frye."

"Just until we can get a handle on who's who. If we find out our Frye is actually Witsett, we'll turn everything we've got on the other woman over to the Austin PD."

Turning abruptly and heading back to her office, Lisbon hit Jane's number on her speed dial. It went to voice mail, and she left a short message and hit redial. After getting the same result, she turned to Tierney. The two looked at one another and in silent agreement left the office.

Just over half an hour later they arrived at Frye's—or Witsett's—house. Jane's Citroen was parked around the corner, and the crime scene tape on the front door was pulled aside. When they entered the house, they heard movement in the basement.

"Jane?" Lisbon called as she moved toward the stairs. She got no answer, and her voice betrayed her desperation when she called out again.

As she descended, she caught sight of him standing up from where he had been examining scrape marks on the floor that arced out from the wall. He ran his hands over the inside of a bookcase nearby and pushed on a metal plate he discovered there. A door next to the bookcase swung open, and Lisbon moved quickly to Jane's side as he walked through it. The smell was sickening. When Jane flipped a switch and light flooded the space, they knew why. On the floor was the body of a man lying face down in a great brown sticky pool of blood. Jane pushed down the wave of nausea that engulfed him and squatted next to the corpse. Lisbon caught his outstretched hand before he actually touched it. He turned to look at her, his mind vaguely registering her ashen complexion and uneasy expression. She pulled him up and led him out of the room, up the stairs and outside where he immediately started to take in great gulps of fresh air.

It had not escaped the attention of either of them that the safe room was filled with monitors, beeping away with sounds and views of CBI offices and the bullpen as well as Lisbon's apartment.

Tierney had already called it in, and she hung up and nodded to Lisbon's unvoiced question that the various teams were on their way. Lisbon helped Jane to sit down on the driveway and pushed his head between his knees.

"Breathe, Jane. You need to breathe." She stood leaning over him, rubbing his back. When his respirations evened, she moved back to Tierney, and the two agents conversed in low tones. After a few minutes, Tierney walked back into the house to begin processing the scene. Lisbon stood looking after her for a moment. When she turned around, Jane was gone . . . again. His car remained in the same place, but he was nowhere to be seen. If she hadn't just been looking at the house, she would have assumed that he had given in to a compulsion to reenter and investigate.

Back at the office a few hours later, the team was hard at it, working their way through growing mounds of evidence and reports and the possibly linked cases. Pushing aside her concern for Jane, Lisbon went over the preliminary report of the most recent crime scene. She and Tierney gave their statements, saying they went back to the house for follow-up and leaving out any mention of the consultant.

Now it was a matter of waiting for reports from the other units. Distressed and agitated, Lisbon barricaded herself in her office. The sun would be up in a few hours, and Tierney left the bullpen to ask their boss if the team could go home to get some rest before the next wave hit. Between the rapidly unfolding case and fear for Jane, she knew Teresa was at her limit and more in need of rest than the others.

There was no sign of Lisbon, nor her keys, bag or cell phone. Tierney moved to the window and looked out on the parking lot. The empty space confirmed her fears. Lisbon was gone, and Tierney had no idea to where or for how long.

**For clarification in this chapter, 17.9 mm is approximately the size of a U.S. dime. Austin Community College exists, but to my knowledge has not produced any murderers, alleged or otherwise.**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	8. Chapter 8

8. MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN

Jane stumbled away from Kristina's house in a daze. He didn't know how long he walked, but when his mind finally cleared and he became aware of his surroundings, he realized he wasn't sure where he was. Calling Lisbon crossed his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to push the button on his speed dial. Besides, he didn't want to talk. He didn't want to _think_ about what they had found, about any of it. He somehow hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of a place he hadn't been to in a long while. He paid the fare and pushing his hands deep into his pockets, made his way across the manicured lawn until he turned onto a gravel path. He didn't know exactly why he was here and what he had come to do. Would he try to talk to them the way he did the last time? When he had promised them he would find and kill their murderer? What would he say? That he had failed? That he wasn't any closer to finding the monster? That he had taken out the woman who may be their murderer's lover on his first date since their deaths? He felt pathetic and useless. Maybe he would just tell them that. A small and bitter voice in his head told him his wife would have appreciated the honesty.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He had ignored the calls from Cho and Van Pelt. He wasn't ready to be reeled back in yet. He was surprised Lisbon hadn't tried to reach him. He looked at the display and stopped in his tracks. Tierney. It was the first time she'd ever called him. There was only one reason he could think of for her to do so. Concern filtering through his fog of self-pity, he started to flip the phone open.

Then he saw her. On a bench directly in front of his wife's and daughter's graves, Lisbon sat with her shoulders hunched forward.

He stepped off the gravel and onto the grass, making his way silently toward her. As he moved closer, he thought he heard her crying softly. Why was she _here_? Had she expected him to show up eventually? That couldn't be it. He wasn't sure why, but he knew she had come for her own reasons. Had she been here before? Did she know he had all but forsaken the place once he had made his promise of vengeance? When his direction took him along a stone wall, he froze as approaching steps sounded on the path on the other side. He ducked behind the shrubs that marked the wall's end.

A woman approached Lisbon and sat next to her. She was dressed head to toe in black. She moved quickly and gracefully, and he could tell that in spite of her small frame she was strong. He only saw her from behind, but in the growing light he could tell that her hair was about the same color as Lisbon's only a shade or two lighter, falling down her back in soft waves. She sat with her shoulders straight, looking at the gravestones. After a moment, she sighed and spoke with a soft accent. Welsh? . . . No, an Irish brogue.

"What are you doing here, Tess? I've been worried."

Tess? When Lisbon didn't answer, she continued.

"You know this isn't wise. You know how erratic he is. He could show up anywhere at any minute. He can't find you here. It's not safe."

He couldn't pretend not to know about whom she was talking. Not safe? What did this mystery woman think he would do? He'd never hurt Lisbon. Still she didn't answer.

"You're not regretting what we've done, are you?" Her voice was low—measured and even.

Lisbon sat up straight and shook her head in the negative.

"What then? Are you worried about him—that he won't be able to deal with it?"

A small nod in the affirmative.

"It was the only way. You know it was."

Another nod, stronger this time.

"Look, you can't be worried about him now. I know you don't want to lose his friendship, but it's best this way, and if he can't deal with it, you'll have to let him go."

"If he leaves, he'll be lost for good." Lisbon's voice sounded hollow.

"You may not be able to save him, Tess."

"He's my friend. I've won't give up on him. Not unless he forces it."

At that point the woman turned toward Lisbon, crooking her elbow over the back of the bench. Jane had to contain a gasp.

"Then you're a better friend to him than he ever was to you." Tierney spat out. "He's lived these last years blinded by hatred—I don't know if it was more toward himself or Red John. He lost sight of what was important a long time ago, focused so entirely on himself as he is. Everything revolves around him. The loss is his, the pain is his, the guilt is his, Red John is his! Everything that ties him to his past is a reminder of _his_ hurt and _his_ guilt—from his house to his wedding band."

She had been in his house. He wondered if Lisbon had. He felt a twinge of shame at the prospect.

"Please . . . don't— " She sounded wounded. Was it for his sake?

"I know it sounds harsh, but there it is. I wish it weren't so, but wishing won't change things. You've done everything you could for him. _No one_ could have done more. No one else would've even tried. Maybe as everything comes to light, as the case unfolds, it will interest him enough to keep him around, even keep him afloat. But once he learns that it's Red John that's dead, he just may come undone altogether. And if he ever learns the whole truth of the matter . . ."

"He'll hate me"

"Maybe."

"He'll never forgive me."

"Probably."

"He won't be able to forgive himself for not keeping his promise to them."

"I know he stood here and promised them that he'd kill Red John. But you stood here and promised them he wouldn't. That promise has been kept, and we stopped the bloody devil, and those are the two things that matter most."

"I wish I could tell him the truth. I think he has the right to know what I've done." Lisbon choked on the last words as a bitter lump swelled in her throat.

Tierney raised her hand to gently stroke Lisbon's hair, pushing some of the dark strands behind her ear. Jane was captivated by the unexpected affection in the gesture.

"You can't, Love. It's too dangerous. I don't think you can trust him."

At that Lisbon turned toward Tierney and gave her a watery smile. "But I do trust him."

Tierney knew how suddenly that could change if he learned the truth. As far as she was concerned, Patrick Jane was as unstable as sand, shifted and formed by whatever wave of circumstance or emotion swept over him. But she kept that to herself as she sighed and turned back to look at the graves before them.

"This has to be the last time you come here." Then looking at the sky she said, "We need to be going. Storm's coming."

They stood, and Jane watched as Lisbon leaned down to place something on his wife's grave before walking away. Jane waited until they had disappeared from view and stepped to the graves. He was trembling. Red John was _dead_? What had they done? What had _she_ done? He felt rage and fear, and both centered on Lisbon. How _dare_ she? _How could she?_ He strode toward the grave and picked up what she'd left behind in a desire to fling it as far away from him—as far away from them—as he could. Gardenias . . . It was a wreath of gardenias . . . His wife's favorite flowers.

His mind and actions stilled. How could Lisbon have known that? He knew she must have read all of his background files, including his interviews from the investigation of their murders. Of course, she had never mentioned them; had never used the information about the trouble in his marriage against him the way Bosco had. She didn't have it in her to be so mean-spirited. But the gardenias hadn't come up in those sessions.

The answer dawned on him: the mental hospital. He'd told Sophie Miller about the gardenias. He had dreamt of them and had probably babbled about them in his sleep. All of that would have been recorded in meticulous detail in his patient file. Lisbon had somehow obtained and read his file from the breakdown. She had never said a word, not to him or anyone at the CBI. Her reasons had probably been two-fold: to protect him and try to help him.

"_You've done everything you could for him. No one could have done more."_

But bringing gardenias to his wife's grave wasn't something she had done for him. It was a personal gesture, an offering from one woman to another. As he stood and held the flowers in his hand, he considered how Lisbon must see his late wife. A wife less than happy with her husband's choices, wishing he could be stronger and regretting the weakness she knew was in him. A wife who loved her husband with all of her heart and knew the heartache of broken promises. Lisbon would understand that and sympathize. He knew the white blooms symbolized that and more.

"_I know he stood here and promised them that he'd kill Red John. But you stood here and promised them he wouldn't."_

The white blooms were a sign of a promise kept. She had given her word that she wouldn't let him become a murderer. Knowing he didn't have the right to cast them aside, he put the flowers back as Lisbon had placed them there.

He couldn't go back to the office yet. He would go back to Kristina's house to retrieve his car then head to his apartment to shower and change. He hailed another cab and climbed into the back seat just as the rain began to pour. On the ride, he remembered bits of what he'd heard in the cemetery.

"_He lost sight of what was important a long time ago,"_

"_The loss is his, the pain is his, the guilt is his, Red John is his! Everything that ties him to his past is a reminder of his hurt and his guilt—from his house to his wedding ring."_

"—_once he learns it's Red John that's dead, . . ."_

"_He'll hate me"_

"_He'll never forgive me."_

"_I think he has the right to know what I've done", _

"_But I do trust him."_

Once inside his apartment, he was suddenly exhausted. He lay down on the bed to rest a while and almost immediately fell into a heavy slumber. One of the reasons he avoided deep sleep was the dreams it brought with it. Sometimes they were nightmares of his wife's and daughter's mutilated bodies. Sometimes they were a mixture of delight and disappointment as he watched them play or twirl happily, smiling at him, remaining just beyond his reach. This time as he dreamt, when they turned to him and smiled, relief washed over him that he did not face them spattered with another man's blood.

A few hours later he woke and after showering and dressing, headed to the CBI without any idea what he would do when he got there.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed and added this story to their various alerts. You've all been great-so encouraging and helpful.**

**I decided to add 2 chapters this time. They're both report-heavy, and I didn't want to burden any of you 2 days in a row with my obsessive compulsion to fill in all the blanks. And, I knew you'd probably want Jane put out of his misery a day sooner.**

9. THE TANGLED WEB

Lisbon and Tierney arrived back at the CBI shortly after the rest of the team, Tierney's assumed identity firmly back in place. Both of them had showered and changed and managed to get a bit of rest. Everyone worked feverishly accumulating and organizing data over the next two days, taking breaks to eat and grab short naps on whatever horizontal surface they could find. To say Jane was surprised by what had been discovered so far about Frye—or Witsett as they now knew her to be—would be a gross understatement. But he was more intent on covertly watching Lisbon, trying to get a read on her and wanting to talk, waiting for her to crack and dreading that she would do exactly that. Early Sunday morning, everyone working the case met in the conference room to go over the evidence.

Jane walked in and took a seat across from Lisbon so he could observe her as reports were given. Tierney was watching him in a coldly calculating manner, and he returned her gaze evenly, determined not to flinch. He kept calm, fighting the fear that he would unravel at any minute. What he didn't know was that she had heard the stifled gasp in the cemetery. Telling Teresa she must have left her phone on the bench, she had doubled back and silently watched him as his thoughts flickered across his face.

She hadn't told Tess. The poor girl was barely maintaining a fragile composure as it was. If she knew Jane was already aware, if only in part, of what had transpired, she would break down completely. Tierney was guardedly optimistic about Jane. Since Friday he had watched Tess obsessively, but had waited with uncharacteristic patience as the investigation proceeded, though she could tell there were moments he was barely holding on. The poor fellow's world had been turned completely upside down for the second time in his life. He seemed to have landed right-side-up. She hoped it stuck.

This is how the investigation had proceeded so far:

Thinking there was a possibility that Gordon Fargo was the serial killer, most of their attention had been focused on going through the evidence found at his house, including the journal. By Friday afternoon, they knew that Fargo was merely a friend and not Red John himself.

At that point, Hightower brought in agents from other units to aid the investigation. Lisbon divided the agents into teams of two and assigned a different victim-Frye, Witsett, Joyne, Steiner and Fargo-to each team. The FBI units were still processing the most recent victim.

Van Pelt and Rigsby had taken both Frye and Witsett since they were definitely connected. They discovered the two students were roommates at Austin Community. Both women had no immediate or known extended family. Kristina Frye was a mediocre student and extreme introvert. Marlene Witsett, on the other hand, was an excellent student who attended every extracurricular activity and social event on and off campus. In spite of that, she was not popular or well liked by students or faculty. Her file was full of complaints and reports from people whom she had offended or made to feel uncomfortable and even threatened. There were two cases of harassment left unresolved when Witsett abruptly left the college. Kristina Frye had suddenly dropped out without notice at the same time. There was little information on Frye before her time at ACC. Witsett had been in and out of foster homes since she was three years old. When she was sixteen, the older couple with whom she lived in Lago Vista, Texas were shot and killed in a home invasion. The girl was found completely unharmed hiding in a closet. Their murderers got away with all the cash and jewelry in the house and were never apprehended. Witsett went off grid until she resurfaced at the college two years later. A few months after she left ACC, she applied for a new driver's license as Kristina Frye using Frye's birth certificate and social security card.

Steiner had lived in California since coming to work for the CBI in 1999. He received his medical degree from a state university in Iowa and completed his residency in a county hospital there. He was a medical examiner in Des Moines until 1992 when he was hired by the county as coroner in Lincoln, Nebraska. He was 52, had never married and had no children.

Gordon Fargo studied forensics and criminology at a technical college in Wisconsin. During that time, he was admitted to a psychiatric facility for observation, but there was no mention in his patient file of diagnosis or treatment. He was an assistant CSI in Madison for two years then joined the Austin PD as a forensic specialist in 1986. He moved to Sacramento in 1997 when he signed on with the CBI. Fifty-three years of age, no wife and no children. CSU was still going through the evidence found at his house, but preliminary tests had linked all of the crime scene photos to Red John cases and several of the items to his victims.

Randall Joyne was forty-nine when he died from injuries sustained during an automobile accident in 2007. He received his degree in forensic pathology at a state university in southern Indiana then bounced around from one law enforcement agency to another until he landed in Austin, Texas shortly after Fargo started there. He moved to Sacramento and was hired at the CBI in 1998. He had no immediate family.

Each person in the conference room had their own opinions on the subject of coincidence, but no one thought it a reasonable explanation for the similarity in age and personal lives of the three men. And they were altogether certain it was no coincidence that all three were from the same hometown of Greyston, a small rural burg in Illinois.

At that moment, an assistant ME knocked on the conference room door and entered. He moved to Agent Hightower and handed her a file.

"I'm sorry for interrupting, ma'am, but Dr. Harris thought you would want these results on the most recent vic's autopsy."

She took the file with a nod of thanks and read from it aloud.

"The victim is identified by documents on his person and subsequent information search as John Clarence Avery. Victim is fifty-two years of age. Cause of death is exsanguination by means of a single gunshot wound to the throat, severing the right common carotid artery. Time of death was sometime around midnight Saturday night."

She slowed as she read the next sentence. "Victim had no identifying marks or scars with the exception of a small tattoo located on the left groin, in the design of a small smiley face approximately 17.9 millimeters in diameter."

Her voice trailed off as she realized the significance of that last fact—a tattoo matching Witsett's, on the opposite side of the same area. Jane's stomach turned as he realized the meaning the companion designs must have held for the two, apparently meant to mark a point of physical and sexual connection.

"Well, that's creepy." Cho's dry comment summed up the discomfort of everyone else in the room.

Van Pelt had started a search as soon as Hightower said the victim's name. She read aloud from her computer screen as each window opened.

"John Clarence Avery has been a resident of the Sacramento area since 1998. Before that he lived in Lincoln, Austin and Des Moines. Prior to Des Moines, he lived with various relatives in the Midwest after leaving his hometown of . . .," she looked up and finished, "Greyston, Illinois."

Looking back at her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard, she again read as an old article from a small Illinois newspaper appeared on the screen.

"Police were called to a residence on Harvey Street in Greyston early Saturday morning when four members of the family living there were found murdered. John C. Avery, 16 year-old son of Carl and Dorothy Avery, found his parents and two older brothers, Franklin and Thomas, stabbed and mutilated in their beds. Young Avery had stayed the night at a friend's house . . ."

Van Pelt typed more, pulling up the police report on the incident. She quickly skimmed the document.

"Report of investigating officers . . . John Clarence Avery statement . . . Here. John Avery's alibi for the night was verified by his friend, George Steiner. Avery spent the night at Steiner's residence with two other friends, Randall Joyne and Gordon Fargo, both of whom also corroborated Avery's alibi . . . Coroner's report . . . Cause of death for all four victims was exsanguination due to multiple stab wounds characterized by vicious force . . ."

By now several agents were crowded behind Van Pelt looking at her computer, and some of them gasped as the few crime scene photos loaded, revealing images that were now familiar to them all. Jane, Lisbon and Tierney had maintained their seats. Grace raised eyes wide with shock to the room in general.

"Their wound patterns match Red John's MO. His own family members were his first victims."


	10. Chapter 10

10. THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS

Jane's eyes were trained on Lisbon as she sat across the table from him. Though his own mind was reeling, he noticed that she had not seemed surprised at a single one of the shocking revelations. Since Avery's name was mentioned, she had kept her eyes locked on her hands, which were tightly folded in her lap.

Hightower contemplated the information they had just heard then slowly gave orders in a measured tone.

"The Serious Crimes Unit will carry on with the investigation with help from other units as needed. You'll report to Agent Lisbon who will report to me. All agents are charged to keep all findings completely confidential. That's all, people."

Not for the first time, Jane thought about how politically astute she was. She would manage the information and manipulate its release for her benefit. Her report to the Attorney General and subsequent press conferences would ensure her continued rapid climb up the professional ladder.

But how Hightower handled the information and reports was of little interest to him. He discreetly watched Lisbon make her way back to her office with Tierney close behind and knew no one else noticed her slightly unsteady gait. The two women entered Lisbon's office and shut the door. A few minutes later, Tierney emerged and walked to her desk.

Cho was tasked with following up with the Crime Scene Unit on ballistics. It did not take them long to match the bullet from John Avery's corpse to a gun found at the house. A data search revealed that the same gun had been used in the shooting deaths of Marlene Witsett's foster parents and later in the death of a Jane Doe in Austin twenty years ago. Van Pelt called the Austin PD to inform them about Kristina Frye and offer them the information on both crimes.

After she made the call, she and Rigsby helped Cho go through Fargo's journals. It didn't take them long to realize they needed the help of the CBI shrink. Fargo was a very disturbed man.

The journals chronicled a mind more than dates or events. For years, Fargo had cycled between episodes of psychotic delusion and startling lucidity. His writings along with information on the prescription bottle they had found at his home told the story of a deranged and twisted man whose only constant had been his love for and devotion to John Clarence Avery. He was willing to share him in friendship with Steiner and Joyne, but when Witsett entered the picture, there was a decided strain put on the relationship between all four men.

It was apparent that Avery had controlled Fargo by alternately giving and withholding his medication and had used him as well as Joyne and Steiner to help cover up his crimes—strings of murders reaching from Sacramento back through Lincoln, Austin, Des Moines, all the way to the first murder of Avery's family. Steiner and Joyne had helped him because they enjoyed the rush it gave them. Even in his sick state, Fargo couldn't understand that. He had felt compelled to help Red John but had never really taken pleasure in so many killings, even though his sickness had compelled him to keep souvenirs from them. In the journals, they learned of the deep hatred between Steiner and Witsett; of how he had thought her "appetites" would be John's undoing and how he had eventually threatened Avery in an attempt to make him get rid of her for good. Both Witsett and Avery were now considered suspects in Steiner's death.

The mattress on which Steiner was killed was made of foam. Soaked with blood, it had retained imprints that were made around the body by the killer's left hand and both knees and feet. Using a computer graphics program, FBI CSU was able to determine that Steiner's killer was approximately 5'7" and 120 pounds—Marlene Witsett's build. She would have been familiar with Avery's killing style, even drawing the red smiley. It was possible that she may have helped him or even killed for him in some cases. A knife found at her home had her fingerprints on it as well as trace amounts of the late coroner's blood. That was one mystery considered solved.

Gordon Fargo had fled the city, and there were no leads as to where he had gone. His duffle bag found in Witsett's basement indicated that he had been at the house. He could have killed Avery, but the fact that Avery had been shot with the gun allegedly used by Witsett in two previous murders suggested the possibility that she had killed him, perhaps in the heat of arguing over Steiner's murder. Enraged by the murder of his idol, Fargo could have then killed Witsett. Until Fargo was found, there would be no closing the case unless more evidence was uncovered, leaving them only with a viable theory.

Lisbon was still in her office, and Tierney had effortlessly and almost imperceptibly assumed her role as lead. She organized the growing pool of evidence from the journals and the FBI units into a case file and moved to Lisbon's office. Without knocking, she entered. After a few minutes, Jane watched as both women exited and with a nod of encouragement from Tierney, Lisbon made her way to report to Hightower. The team waited in the bullpen until the director stepped out of her office and congratulated them on a job well done and told them to go home and get some well-deserved rest.

Jane quickly made his way to Lisbon's office and waited for her to return so that he could talk with her about the case. He didn't like to think of it as a confrontation. He had noticed her increasingly weakening state and just wanted a chance to talk. He wanted to give _her_ a chance. Too late he realized that her bag and jacket weren't in their usual place. Tierney must have removed them with the intention of taking Lisbon away immediately following her meeting with Hightower. He moved to the window and looked down in time to see both women getting into Lisbon's car. As he bolted for the elevators, he knew that his attempt to catch up with them would be in vain.

Of course, by the time he rushed out of the building, they were out of sight. He went back inside to spend what he knew would be a restless night on his couch. The leather nest didn't seem as comfortable and welcoming as usual, but he tried to content himself with the knowledge that he would have a chance to talk with Lisbon in the morning. He knew she wanted to talk to him. She had said so in the cemetery. It was just a matter of getting past Tierney. For the first time he thought of how the two women had interacted. Obviously, they were not newly acquainted. How long had they known one another, and exactly what was their relationship? That was information he would extract from Lisbon as well. He only had to hold out until tomorrow.

The next day, Lisbon called in sick.


	11. Chapter 11

11. THE SOILED SAINT

Jane was beside himself. He had waited three days to approach Lisbon. Tierney had called in as well, and they were somewhere together; he was sure of it. He wanted answers—_needed answers_. He felt like the thin cord that was holding him together was ready to snap. He would sit quiet and sullen then suddenly burst into angry tirades over small things, lashing out at Grace for not replenishing the tea and fighting with Rigsby over it. Even Cho was driven to distraction by his agitated state as he took turns pacing and sitting on the couch jiggling his legs. He called Lisbon repeatedly, every attempt going directly to her voicemail. He finally left the office without a word and drove to her apartment. She wasn't home. He thought about picking the lock, but judging by what he could see by peering in the windows, it didn't look as if she even lived there anymore. Not knowing where else to look, he returned to the office in a worse mood than when he left.

It finally occurred to him that there was one other place she could be: the safe house. He wanted to kick himself for not thinking of it sooner. Cho knew the location, but would he tell? He stood at Cho's desk, hands balled up in his pockets, rocking back and forth heel to toe and attempted a light-hearted tone.

"So, Cho, do you have any idea where our fearless leader might be?"

"She called in sick. Probably at home." Cho answered without looking up from his report.

"I've checked there, and I really need to talk with her."

"Try her cell."

"I have. It goes to voicemail."

At that, Cho looked up at Jane thoughtfully. After a few seconds, he said, "Maybe it's best if you just leave her alone. She's had a rough few weeks."

"She's probably at the safe house. Come on, how about you give me the address?"

Cho's eyes narrowed suspiciously at Jane now. "Why are you so eager to see her?"

"Like I said, I need to talk with her. And if she needs cheering up, you know I'm really good at that."

"Yeah. You're also really good at making her mad as hell. I'm not sure seeing you is the best thing for her right now." Cho didn't know exactly what was going on with the boss, but something had been bothering her for days. He was weighing the matter, and Jane was afraid the scale would not tip in his favor. He leaned forward to look directly into Cho's eyes, placed his palms on the desk and spoke in a low, earnest voice.

"Please, Cho. I really think if I could just talk to her it might make all the difference in the world."

Cho was surprised at Jane's tone. He had heard the man lie, needle, tease, and pester, but he had never heard him plead.

"62 Solomon Island Road. And if you do or say anything—"

Cho's threat was lost on Jane, who was already in the elevator pushing the button for the first floor.

Jane drove out of town and onto Solomon Island Road toward the Sacramento River. The road curved squarely left, and at the bend, a mailbox marked only with the number 62 stood next to a neat gravel drive that cut away to the right. Jane followed the long driveway through thick trees and undergrowth for about half a mile. The trees gave way to a sunny opening, revealing a house resembling an updated English cottage with a deep, broad lawn. There were flowers and trees spaced around the house, and at the back was another deep yard that he was sure must overlook the river. The cottage wasn't large, but he could tell it was roomy, and the whole place looked peaceful and pleasant.

He parked on the drive at the side of the house. His intuition told him to forego the front door and walk around to the backyard. He saw her sitting on a wicker chair, looking out at the river. She looked . . . crumpled was the only word he could think of, as if some great hand had wadded her up and cast her aside. As he watched, she took a deep breath that seemed to fill her small body then released it in a trembling sigh so long that it surely deflated her. She sat with her back to him, and he took a few steps closer to her, inwardly cursing when he stepped on a twig, alerting her to his presence. She didn't stir from her place or turn to face him. She didn't even seem surprised that he had come.

"What did you have to do to get the address out of Cho?"

"I told him I needed to talk with you. I told him I could make you feel better."

He stood there, rooted in place, suddenly aware that he had no idea what to say to her. He felt like he was entitled to be angry, and he was sure hurt, betrayal and even hatred were reasonable options. But standing there looking at her, all he could summon was an acute, gnawing curiosity. Finally, Lisbon broke the silence.

"So talk."

There were a lot of words in his head. He could see them in his mind's eye just sort of floating around in there, not knowing which one to use to start the first sentence of a conversation he knew they had to have. Thinking it would be easier for her if she didn't have to actually look at him, he moved to stand just behind her. Somewhere in his mind, it registered that she was wearing a dress. It was light and summery, and her legs were pulled up and tucked to the side under the full skirt. He guessed she was probably barefoot. For some reason, he wanted to stay in this place in his head for a while. It felt safe and easy here. But her voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"You want to know how I found him."

Taken aback by her bluntness, he answered with one word. "Yes."

Trust Lisbon to make even this part easy for him; this part that might be the end of their friendship, even their acquaintance. Without turning to look at him, she sighed again and began her story.

"You were right when you said I was sad. It seems like a long, long time ago now. Sam died, and Virgil left and Hightower sailed in, threatening me at every turn. It got so bad I couldn't sleep and didn't want to eat. After a while I didn't want to come into work anymore and didn't care if Hightower made good on her threats."

He knew she had been different the past months, but he had no idea things were so bad. How could he have missed it? She had told him before that he was selfish. Was he that self consumed?

"I realized I _had_ to do _something_. So I started going through the Red John files on my own. I'd check them out of evidence every weekend and sit at home pouring over them. I didn't see anything new, but Sam had put post-it notes on the first page of each file that said "Fresh Eyes". It occurred to me that I—that _all_ of us were looking at the files like investigators and prosecutors. When I tried looking at them from another angle, like a defense attorney, it gave me a different perspective and made me ask questions that hadn't occurred to me before. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I was just waiting for something to happen. I went to the CSU and asked them some general questions about forensics. I didn't want anyone to know what I was doing and knew I had to be careful. Eventually, I saw something that didn't make sense in one of the autopsy reports. I have a friend who's an ME with the FBI, and I sent a copy of all the reports to her. She said they contained errors and indicated certain testing hadn't been done, but she would need more information to be sure of the extent of the inaccuracies. Steiner or Fargo must have told Red John what I was doing because that's when he sent the letter. I assumed he didn't want it to look like it had anything to do with my investigating. It was worded to suggest he was threatening me because of my relationship with you."

When Lisbon paused, Jane realized he had never even thought to ask to see the letter. It may have been sent to stop her inquiries, but Red John had known enough about how close the two were to use their friendship as a subterfuge. The thought made him shudder. She continued, her voice tinged with bitter amusement.

"He thought I would stop if he threatened me. That I'd stop digging-that he could scare me into backing off. He didn't see me as a threat."

She wanted to laugh at the irony of it, but she only tilted her head and went on with her explanation.

"I knew Fargo had handled the crime scene reports and Steiner had been the only coroner on Red John cases for years and was pretty sure they were both working for him. I reached a point where I knew I couldn't keep going on my own. I didn't want to endanger the team, and I didn't know whom else to trust. So I called Virgil about bringing in Liz."

He hadn't interrupted her once she started. She was surprisingly forthcoming, and he didn't want to risk goading her into a stubborn silence. But he just couldn't resist asking.

"Who is she anyway?"

"She worked with Virgil over twenty years ago, before he came to the CBI."

"Where did Virgil work before the CBI?"

"I can't tell you that."

"What? If you tell me, you'll have to kill me?"

"I won't, but Virgil might have to."

She sounded so matter-of-fact. Under other circumstances he would have found it amusing.

"How do _you_ know Tierney?"

She hesitated, cautiously picking through her thoughts for an answer.

"I've known her most of my life. And I've worked with her a few times in the past."

"Is she CBI?"

"No, she's . . . an independent specialist. She's worked with various government agencies here and in Europe over the years, taking jobs on an individual basis."

"You mean she's a mercenary."

"She really doesn't like that word. She says it's unsavory."

Again, he would have smiled under other circumstances. She was so honest—almost childlike. It was odd that of all the things Lisbon would _not_ want to talk about, this had to be the most difficult. Yet she was more open than he had ever known her to be. He felt how keenly she must have wanted to talk to him and tell him all of this.

"Why Tierney for this particular job?"

"She has a very specific skill set. And she's extremely well connected. She actually specializes in location and retrieval. There's nothing and no one she can't find, as long you're not particular about her methods. She prefers to work outside the box."

Lisbon paused for so long at that point, it was as if she had forgotten he was there. He waited patiently, and she took a deep breath and pushed on, determined now to get it all out.

"She's good at what she does. _Very_ good. She gets paid a lot, but sometimes she collects favors instead. Apparently, the AG owed her a very _big_ favor from some past position he held with the Feds. When she found out what I was doing and about the threat, she called him and got everything set up. He called Hightower and said he had received credible information that I was in danger from Red John. He didn't want anyone but her and Cho to know about it and said he was having someone transferred in temporarily from the FBI. Liz arranged for this house, and she introduced her mock file into the CBI and FBI systems. Hightower never knew the difference. I hated keeping anything from Cho, but I just couldn't risk telling anybody what we planned."

"To kill Red John." His voice sounded hard and flat.

"Yes. To kill Red John. I serve the law, Jane, but I knew in this case the law wouldn't serve. The forensic work on the case was sloppy, and if Red John ever went to trial, any defense attorney worth his salt would tear it apart. Our chances of catching him following CBI protocol were slim to none, and if we had somehow managed it, we would never have seen him convicted. He had to be stopped, and this was the only way I knew to do it."

"You could have told me. I could've been there. I _should've_ had my part in it."

She shook her head sadly.

"No. I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk your not being able to get the job done."

"You think that I wouldn't have been able to finish it?" Did she think he would have lost his resolve so easily? He was starting to get angry now.

"I think you'd be dead and he'd be in the wind and we would've lost our chance to stop him."

"So you took it upon yourself to 'get the job done'?" He asked tersely.

Her voice was so low and sorrowful, he almost didn't catch the words.

"I wouldn't wish it on anyone I cared for."

He felt something hard and tight in his chest. Sympathy. How many times had she accused him of being incapable of feeling it? She had plotted and planned and brought Tierney in to do the dirty work. With her dedication to upholding the law, he knew it must be eating her alive, but he didn't _want_ to feel sympathy for her. After another deep shuddering breath, she told him the rest.

Liz had helped her investigate Fargo, Steiner and Joyne. They were both suspicious of the fake Kristina and her determination to insinuate herself into Serious Crime cases, as well as into Jane's personal life. But it was when the psychic approached Elizabeth and did a "reading" using the fabricated information from her CBI file that they knew they needed to take a closer look. In that move, Frye revealed that not only had she accessed the Bureau's system, but somehow knew about Hightower's call from the AG. Electronic bugs in the offices were a very real possibility. If Witsett was in league with Red John, it would explain how he was always one step ahead of them. The reading enabled Witsett to meet Tierney and assess her, as well as arrogantly play at having what she believed was the upper hand. As she spoke, he remembered Lisbon not wanting her protection detail mentioned in her office. The bugs didn't matter during these last few days. There was no one left to listen.

Tierney had accessed Fargo's home and found the safe room and his journals, helping them make the final connection between the three men and Witsett. While the team was at Witsett's house protecting her during the bogus Red John threat, Lisbon had attached a tracking device to the psychic's purse she always carried with her. She had also searched the house and happened upon the gun. After taking it to her FBI contact for a cursory ballistics test, she returned it to its hiding place. When the gun was connected to Witsett's previous crimes, it was only a matter of waiting and watching and following. Witsett eventually returned to her house with a man whom they identified as John Clarence Avery. The ensuing background check convinced them he was Red John. Shortly after that, Witsett unexpectedly murdered Steiner, both paving the way for and forcing them to set the final part of their plan in motion.

Jane was astounded by the sheer magnitude of what Lisbon had accomplished. She had carried on her investigation right under his nose for months. The secrecy and duplicity and the _brilliance_ of it was nearly incomprehensible. He hadn't realized anything was going on—hadn't even noticed that she was slowly coming undone under the pressure of it. He would never have been able to keep her so completely in the dark if their roles had been reversed. Somewhere along the line he had forgotten that she was a good investigator—maybe the best the bureau had-long before he started working with her. He could tell she was getting tired, worn out with her revelations. He prompted her to go on.

"So, who did Fargo kill, and how did you get him to do it?"

"Fargo's dead. He didn't kill anybody."

He supposed Fargo would never be found, so he didn't pursue that.

"So you investigated and set everything up, and Tierney used her 'very specific skill set' to kill Witsett, Fargo and Red John. And now you're covering your tracks?"

"Liz killed Witsett and Fargo."

Everything seemed to slow down. He couldn't hear anything, like the world about him had stilled to the faintest whisper. The implication of what she said swirled around him before it actually penetrated his mind. He didn't want the thought to crystallize. He had assumed that she had done nothing but investigate and plan.

"_I wish I could tell him the truth. I think he has the right to know what I've done."_

Comprehension took hold of his thoughts, and his heart began to race almost painfully. He took an involuntary step back from her and frowned down at her bent head. He knew that _he_ had pursued Red John with a vicious and nearly inhuman desire and had never considered it strange to have such feelings. But the thought of Teresa Lisbon calculatingly taking the life of another person—_any_ person—was beyond his understanding. A weird panic took hold of him. She couldn't do such a thing. She was incapable of it. It was unnatural, and it frightened him. He wanted to be angry with her, so he searched for a reason. She couldn't have merely wanted to stop him. There had to be something else, something more self-serving. The accusing thought came to him readily enough. He didn't care about making it easier for her now. He stepped in front of her and looked down at her and spat the words at her in an angry growl.

"So after all your preaching, after all your reproaches, when he kills _Bosco_, when he kills someone _you_ love, _then_ it's all right? _Then_ it's acceptable to Saint Teresa to exact vengeance?"

She looked up at him, hurt and confused, like a dog that didn't understand why it had been kicked. She held out her hand almost as if in supplication and whispered, desperate for him understand.

"I didn't do it for Sam. I did it to stop Red John. And I did it for you."

That's when Jane heard the double click of a gun being cocked immediately to the right side of his head.


	12. Chapter 12

**I can't say thank you enough for the lovely reviews and being added to your story and favorite alerts.**

**I know this one is short, but I think it's a sweet scene and wanted it to stand alone. Two more chapters plus epilogue to go. Everyone enjoy your weekend!**

12. DON'T HATE ME

"Hello, Patrick. Exactly what do you think you're doing here?" It struck him that Tierney's Irish brogue sounded both comforting and threatening at the same time.

In an instant, all lethargy left Lisbon's body as she sprang from her chair to stand between Jane and the gun pointed at him. Her voice was still quiet, but now held a note of warning.

"Put the gun away, Liz. We're just talking."

"I know you're talking. I thought we agreed that you weren't going to do that."

"I told you. He's my friend—"

"What I heard didn't sound very friendly."

"Please, Liz." Lisbon's voice softened as she took a step toward her. She laid her hand on top of the gun and gently pushed it down. Tierney reluctantly relaxed her hold on the weapon, allowing Teresa to take it from her grasp. Her eyes, however, never left Jane.

The gun was heavy in Lisbon's hand. She felt so tired and weak and couldn't seem to shake it. Liz told her it would get better and that it would all fade in time. She just couldn't imagine that happening. She wanted to lie down but didn't want to leave the two of them alone together. She felt that she needed to say more to Jane, but she didn't know what or even why. Frowning down at the gun in her hand, she shook her head as if she couldn't make her mind think clearly. Jane looked at her with growing concern, and that alerted Tierney. She slowly reached for the gun and took it back, easing it out of Lisbon's hand and mumbling something about putting it somewhere safe. Turning to walk back into the house, she spoke to Jane over her shoulder.

"Help her inside."

He stepped to Lisbon's side, slid one hand around her waist and started walking to propel her forward. She seemed to be in shock, and it looked to be getting worse. How long could she stay like this before she would need medical help? He wished that he could take back what he had said-take back everything. He wanted to undo it all. He wished that he had never told her his plans for Red John. Once inside, Tierney motioned to the sofa.

"See if you can get her to lie down."

He laid her gently on the sofa, and turned to the other woman.

"Could I just sit in here alone with her? I won't talk anymore unless she wants to."

Whatever the woman saw in his face or heard in his voice must have softened her because she nodded once and left the room. He turned back to Lisbon and gently lifted her head and shoulders just enough that he could sit down and lower her head onto his lap. He draped one arm across her chest, grasping the shoulder opposite him, and stroked her hair with his other hand, trying to will her blank eyes to glare at him for touching her.

Sudden tears welled up in her eyes, and she rolled toward him, burying her face in his side. Her words came out muffled but defiant.

"I'm not sorry. I'll _never_ be sorry."

His hand hovered above her for an instant. Then he resumed stroking the hair at the back of her head.

"I wouldn't be either."

They stayed that way, unspeaking, until the sun nearly set. She rolled to her back and peered up at him in the growing darkness, his hand captured beneath the back of her head. She grasped his other arm as it lay across her shoulders with both of her hands and whispered to him in the stillness.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, but please don't hate me."

His answer was light and soft. "I don't hate you."

There were no more words to say. She felt that was all she had the right to ask of him. She closed her eyes and a few more tears spilled over and trailed into her hair. When Elizabeth returned to the room, she found them still on the sofa, Patrick's head fallen forward on his chest and Tess holding onto his arm, her head cradled in his hand. Both of them were sound asleep. She would let them stay together that way for a little while. She didn't want him to leave until she could trust he wouldn't do anything foolish. And thankfully, Tess had finally responded to something.


	13. Chapter 13

**I do not own the Mentalist or any of its characters. Elizabeth is still all mine, and I am content with that.**

13. ALL IN THE FAMILY

He woke the next morning to sunlight filtering through the curtains and the smell of eggs and bacon cooking. There was no alarm clock in the room, so he had no idea what time it was; only that it was well past the hour he usually got up. Not feeling the need to push himself up to begin the day, he laid quietly for a while just enjoying the way the bed felt. Last night he had stripped off his suit and fallen gratefully onto the mattress just wanting to continue the sleep from which he had been awakened—minus the crick in his neck. But this morning he took a moment to revel in the softness of the sheets and the plushness of comforter and pillows.

There was no sense of terrible urgency, no feeling of being driven. For a long time, he had lived with a darkness that was so tangible he could feel it wrapping itself around him, not allowing him to move or flee. It was a horrible dream from which he had no desire to awaken though, at times, it constricted his very ability to breathe and was sure to one day prove to be his end. It consumed him and, in spite of what he saw as the distractions of cases and friendships, was the governing factor in every decision he made and every step he took. Only killing Red John would free him. Of course, a darkness of another type would have descended. He would have only traded one perdition for another. Working at the CBI, he had dealt with enough murderers who had killed for revenge to know that it didn't make anything better. He was always aware that this was something he should consider, but the right and obligation to kill Red John was his, and he had never been willing to think that things might end differently. He had just thought that Red John and maybe he himself would be dead, and everything would just go to blackness.

Instead, he was alive. Red John had been killed and not by his hand. Everything had gone according to someone else's plan, and he wasn't the smartest person in the room. Strangely—very strangely—the world did not appear to be ending. He felt lighter, like the overwhelming weight wasn't there anymore. A fanciful thought flitted through his mind that if he threw the comforter off he might actually be able to float just above the bed. Everything wasn't fine or all right, but Red John was dead, and he wasn't. When he had contemplated life after revenge, it involved prison. Or him and the murderer lying side by side on matching steel tables in the morgue. Instead, he lay in a real bed in a real house with real people who had made breakfast. He should resent Lisbon for stealing what he had held so dearly to be his own for so long. He should feel angry and bitter and unforgiving. But try as he might, he just couldn't seem to work himself up to it.

He hoped there was tea.

He dressed and walked down the kitchen stairs and paused at the sight of Teresa—she didn't really look like Lisbon right now—standing by the stove waiting for the kettle to boil. She wore a plain sleeveless white dress made of gauzy cotton that fit at her waist and flared to just above her knees and made her look like she was about nineteen years old. He tilted his head to one side and watched as she poured a little milk into a teacup. She transferred boiling water from the kettle and dunked a teabag repeatedly into the liquid. Satisfied that it was properly steeped, she turned and placed it on the table next to a plate of perfectly cooked eggs and bacon with toast.

All these years, and he had thought she wasn't paying attention.

Elizabeth stepped away from the stove with her own plate, and she and Teresa looked up at him as he came down the stairs. He was struck with the similarity between them—the curl of their hair, their size and build, the shape of their faces wearing the same questioning expression. He didn't want to read too much into anything at the moment. Breakfast smelled too good.

They all took their seats at the table. No one spoke. Teresa just sat and stared at her plate. Elizabeth cast a worried glance in her direction then looked at Jane as if she expected him to do something. He faced the forlorn woman sitting across from him.

"I'm not eating until you do."

She looked at him for a moment then picked up her fork and took a bite of egg. Satisfied, Jane did the same. Relieved, Elizabeth ate her own breakfast. The rest of the meal passed in silence. When they were finished, Teresa excused herself to go upstairs. Jane turned to Elizabeth as she stood washing the dishes.

"How long have you known her?"

"Most of her life." It was the same answer Teresa had given him.

"_How_ do you know her?"

"I've worked with her a few times in the past." Were these answers rehearsed?

"How are you related to her?"

Her hand stilled momentarily against the plate she was washing. She continued the circular motion then lifted the dish into the drying rack. She did not look at him when she finally replied.

"What makes you think we're related?"

"I'm not blind."

"Could've fooled me," she mumbled to the next plate.

"What?" Jane asked.

"I'm Irish, Tess is Irish-American. We all look a lot alike, you know."

She was being facetious, and he knew it would be hard to get her to talk. He started to push it but decided to try another tack. He picked up a towel and started drying the dishes she had stacked. He would just wait her out. If he was patient, she would talk. That always worked with Lisbon . . .

Okay, maybe there were more differences between the two women than he thought. They continued in silence while Jane planned a different line of attack. Finally he just blurted out what he was thinking.

"I know you're related somehow. What's the big mystery? It's not like I'm going to tell anybody about any of this."

She sighed—just like Lisbon—and looked up at him regretfully.

"I don't think Tess would want—"

"She's my aunt." Teresa spoke from the stairs. "My mother's younger sister."

Jane thought for a moment. He had read her personnel file. Her mother was an only child.

"There's no record," she said as if reading his mind. "Their father was from Ireland. He met and married their mother here. After mom was born and Aunt Liz was on the way, their dad took them all back to his country. She's lived there most of her life. Their parents died when they were teenagers, and they came here for a while, but Aunt Liz didn't stay. She and Mom had a falling out, and when Mom found out what she did for a living, she didn't want us to know about her. My brothers still don't know she exists. Liz thought it would be safer for us if none of her associates knew she had family, so she erased any evidence that we were related."

"But somehow you met?"

"They reconciled when I was a small child, but they still thought it best if the connection was kept quiet. Besides, my dad really didn't like her. I first saw her when I was four years old. I woke up from a nap and heard them talking outside. Somehow I knew it was a secret and didn't tell. Two years later, Mom let me meet her. After that, if Aunt Liz was in town, Mom would call her to come and get me sometimes when I was too much for her to handle. Mom said it was some kind of cosmic joke that she had ended up with Liz's daughter."

Jane pictured little, unruly Lisbon driving her mother to distraction.

"He just asked how we're related, Tess. I don't think you need to air all the laundry."

"Oh, I don't mind, Elizabeth. I've been trying to get her to talk to me for years."

Teresa chewed the inside of her lip. Once she started talking last evening, it did seem as if she couldn't make herself stop. She headed outside before Jane could ask her another question. He followed her so that he could.


	14. Chapter 14

**Only this chapter and the epilogue left. Thanks for reading and reviewing!**

14. LITTLE PUPPET MADE OF PINE

There was one thing she said the day before he didn't quite understand. He didn't want to even attempt to read her or make deductions. Teresa Lisbon wasn't as translucent as he had believed her to be.

She was standing in the garden in the backyard with her arms folded tightly against her, looking out at the river again. It must be a favorite view.

"So— "

"Please don't ask me anymore questions. There's really not much of anything left to tell."

"It's just about something you said yesterday."

He decided to interpret her silence as permission to ask.

"What did you mean when you said you did it for me? I mean, there's the obvious—that you wanted to keep me out of prison or the morgue. But so far nothing about this has been the obvious."

She turned to look at him, squinting against the bright sunshine. He squinted back at her. He hadn't put his jacket on that morning, and seeing him standing there in the familiar vest with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows made her feel comfortable enough to try to answer him.

"You'll think it doesn't make sense. And you're probably right, but it seemed . . . it helped when I . . .

She was searching for the right way to say it. She knew how she had reasoned it out, but saying it aloud was something different. As she mentally ran through several versions of the explanation, they all sounded foolish to her, not to mention slightly crazy. The uncertainty from the previous evening welled up inside of her. He watched her, seeing she was trying to be cautious. He thought it was a little late for that.

"Just say it, Teresa."

The use of her first name was like a signal to charge ahead, though she knew it would sound like nonsense.

"Jane, you're my best friend. Maybe the best friend I've ever had, as strange as that sounds. And I think I'm yours, too, but not like the usual best friends. We understand one another as well as two people like us can. We respect each others intentions, and we keep each other's secrets and trust each other not to judge. I don't know what I would've done if he'd gotten to you or if you'd ended up in prison. I don't think I could bear either outcome. I knew it was important to you, probably the most important thing, for you to be the one to kill Red John. So I thought if I . . . if I did it, it would be the closest thing possible to you doing it. It would be like you were there . . . at least in part."

She didn't want a reply, didn't want to hear any argument against her thinking. She turned her back to him, and he understood that she didn't want to talk anymore. He knew there was something convoluted in her reasoning, but he got it. She said they were best friends. He didn't know how or when it had happened, but he had to admit it was true. She said they understood one another. More true for her than for him. And yes, he knew he could trust her not to judge. She had effectively removed the one thing that would have given her the right. And not judging her? He could live with that. He went back into the kitchen where Elizabeth was finishing up.

"She seems better today. She's stronger, and her mind is clearer."

"She's gotten through the worst part of it."

"You mean she's accepting that she killed him and is trying to get passed it."

"I mean she told you the truth, and you're still here and still speaking to her. I think that worried her the most."

He thought about that. Yeah, that sounded like Lisbon. He decided to push Elizabeth's seeming good will to fill in some of the blanks.

"I have to know—"

"I wondered when you'd get around to that. After Witsett killed Steiner, we followed her to her house and got in through a way Tess had arranged during the protection detail. We knew Avery would show soon enough and that we had to be inside the house before he got there. They argued a long time . . . and then made up."

A look of distaste momentarily clouded her face. He let it pass without comment.

"It wasn't until later that night we could finally get at them separately. Avery went to the safe room to see if anything was going on with his little sneak-fest. I dealt with Witsett while Tess got the gun out of its hiding place and went downstairs. I followed her—I didn't want her to be alone with him."

He nodded his understanding, and she continued.

"The safe room door was open. She stepped inside, raised the gun and cocked it. He stood up and turned around, and he was surprised for just an instant. Then he smiled at her. Not a smile really—more of a sadistic leer. He didn't think she could do it and told her as much."

"What else did he say?"

"Nothing. She didn't give him the chance. She didn't want conversation or his inevitable droning on about you. Shot him point blank in the throat. He got this look of shock and horror on his face. If it hadn't been so terrible, it woulda been comical. He fell forward and bled out on the floor. Then she just wiped the gun down and left it for the CSU to find."

He knew he should think it strange for her to be relating such grisly details over the breakfast dishes, but he simply digested what she said. He had wanted Red John to suffer. He had wanted his dying to be slow and painful. He was disappointed that it hadn't been. But as he thought about it—Red John's surprise and fear, his shock at Lisbon being the one to outwit him and her refusal to let him play the showman—it wasn't a bad second. The final card had been played, and it was one Red John didn't even know was in the deck. Lisbon had dealt it masterfully.

"How much does the AG know?"

"Only what he had to know to get me into the CBI."

"Cho and Hightower?"

"No more than the AG, though I think Cho has his suspicions."

"And Virgil?"

"Everything except how Avery died."

"So only you, Lisbon and I know the whole truth?"

"Yes." And with that she turned to look at him directly. "You know what will happen if it's found out. They're hard on cop killers but even harder on cops who kill."

"I understand."

"_Do_ you now?"

He understood her misgivings. He was somewhat unstable—although there was usually a method to his madness—and very unpredictable. He had been desperate to kill Red John and had never made any secret of it. She knew that he was a bitter man very capable of being cold and unforgiving. But he would never hurt Teresa.

"Oh, I assure you I do understand, Elizabeth. Now, can I ask some more questions?"

She nodded, knowing she probably couldn't stop him and not really caring what more he knew.

"You don't have cancer?"

"No. Just a wig, some candy in a prescription bottle, the right make-up and slightly over-sized clothes."

"This house isn't exactly CBI issue. What's the deal?"

"I bought it for Tess. I wanted her to have a real home, someplace nice, and the look on her face when she saw the backyard and the river . . . I knew this was it."

"So, you'll be leaving." It wasn't a question.

"It doesn't do for me to have a permanent address."

"How long will you stay?"

"Only as long as she absolutely needs me. It'll not be much longer, I think." She looked at him pointedly. He looked back at her questioningly. She motioned for him to sit at the table, and she sat down facing him.

"Look, Patrick, you've made certain promises to her, haven't you? As friends do? The kind someone like you would make to someone like her?"

He swallowed hard and nodded, not knowing exactly where she was going with this.

"I've promised her that she can trust me, that I'll be there for her, and that I'll always save her."

She didn't let him see how surprised she was that he had offered so much.

"Well, in spite of the fact that it would have been very difficult to do all that from a prison cell and even more so from the grave, I think you had the intention of keeping those promises as best you could. Isn't that so?"

He nodded again.

"Well, here's your chance."

He looked down, considering what she was saying. He hadn't really thought about anything beyond killing Red John. Exactly what was she asking him to do? He thought the safest thing would be to just give her whatever she wanted.

"Ok."

"Good. Now, let's get down to business. In all of this, Tess has been my primary concern, and I would never consider her to owe me anything for keeping her safe. The way I figure it, in doing so, I've inadvertently done something for you."

"And this is where you collect the favor?"

She smiled genuinely at that.

"So Tess told you about that. Yeah, that's exactly what this is. I usually call in favors as I need them, but I think I'll ask for yours up front."

"And that is?"

"Stay with the unit, with Tess and the others, for one more year. Then think seriously about what you want to do."

"May I ask why?" He was surprised when she took his hands in both of hers. It forced him to look directly into her eyes as she spoke in a serious but kind voice.

"You were somewhat of a despicable person, Patrick. Your father taught you that you were above the morals and expectations of society, and that you were entitled to whatever you could take. He was a greedy man, and you didn't like cheating people for him. But when _you_ grew into a man, you were just as greedy for different things: fame, adoration, a lifestyle that you had only ever dreamed of. You were greedy and cold-hearted and scornful, and you wrapped all of that in a shell of charm and deceit, not caring whom you cheated or how it affected them."

He had to admit that was a pretty accurate description. He usually felt a cold resentment when someone pinpointed his past so precisely, but she spoke with such warmth that he knew she wasn't trying to use it against him.

"Then your family was taken in such a brutal way. I think it cracked that shell a bit and everything inside just sort of leaked out. You floundered for a while thinking your life was over and you'd lost your sanity and all that was left for you was vengeance. You were kind of like a man who survives a bad stroke. The shell is still intact for the most part, but he has to relearn everything from the inside out—how to walk and talk and read again. Only he doesn't relearn it in quite the same way as he knew it before. You were blessed to fall in with exactly the people you needed—Tess, Cho, Rigsby and Grace. You've still got the shell, the charmer that wants to lie and cheat to get what you're after. Not that that's all bad, mind you. It does help with your particular method of catching criminals. But I think over the years you've worked with them, they've taught you a different way to see the world around you. You want different things now. Granted I think you have a long way to go, but you've learned friendship and compassion and loyalty and a rickety sort of honor. I think even if you could go back, you'd not want to go back to what you were."

That was accurate, too. He waited for her to go on.

"You need to stay with them for a while. To finish your rehabilitation, as it were. Maybe with Red John out of the picture, you'll get on a bit faster."

"And that's it? That's the favor?" He didn't think it sounded too burdensome.

She smiled at him again, her hazel eyes twinkling just like Lisbon's jades did when she was about to zing him.

"I think it's your only hope of becoming a real boy."

He grinned at her, and she released his hands and stood up. She nodded toward the back door, and he took it as his cue to rejoin Lisbon. She was still standing as he had left her. He moved to stand even with her, hands in pockets, maintaining some distance between them and mirroring the way she looked out at the river.

"You know, as lovely as it is here, we can't hide out much longer. Besides, Cho knows where we are."

"I know," she answered, still looking out at the distance, her arms folded tight against her small frame again. "I just need the rest of this day. I'll go back tomorrow."

She frowned as she looked down and dug at the ground with the toe of her shoe.

"So, what are you going to do now?" she asked quietly.

"I thought I just said."

She thought about what he'd said. _We can't hide out . . . Cho knows where we are._

She looked away from him, but not before he saw the small smile tug at her lips. He moved to stand just behind her, as close as he could get without touching her.

"So you're going to stay? At least for a while?"

"A year is the agreement." She turned her head and looked up and over her shoulder at him.

"She's collecting a favor from you?"

"She's not the sort of woman you say no to."

"I know just what you mean."

"Must run in the family." She looked away and tried not to smile again.

"Besides, I think she let me off pretty easy."

"How so?"

"Where else would I go? I told you once that I'd learned a lot from you, but recently I've realized I'm still pretty clueless. Elizabeth says I need to stay with the unit to learn how to be a real boy."

She leaned her head back and laughed outright.


	15. Chapter 15

15. EPILOGUE

They wrapped up the investigations and filed their case reports. The mystery of Witsett's and Avery's murders would probably never be solved, but everyone accepted the plausible theory that Fargo had killed Witsett after she shot Avery over Steiner's death. The hidden bugs and cameras were located and removed, and Hightower instituted a policy of sporadic electronic sweeps throughout the CBI building.

The unit received commendations from the AG for their handling of the case. There was a rough moment when he eyed Lisbon suspiciously. Remembering that he had had dealings with Elizabeth in the past, Jane and Lisbon both knew he may have deduced at least part of the truth of what had happened. But he had been the one to bring Tierney in, so what could he really say or do? In the end, he was so relieved to be able to tell the voting citizens of California that the serial killer who had terrorized them for over ten years was dead that he apparently decided to let sleeping dogs lie.

Jane worried things would never really be normal again for the team but was surprised and relieved that after things settled down, it only took two weeks for them to get back to some semblance of the way things had been before. Cho was reading a book Tierney had given him. Rigsby eventually ate his way through the snacks she left behind, and Jane got his mostly unused desk back. He was disappointed to find that the holster had been removed. Van Pelt was trying harder than ever to impress her boss but was much more confident of her success in doing so.

Jane still had his dark moments. Nightmares still plagued him, though with less frequency. The insomnia wasn't as much of a problem, but he didn't expect that to clear up altogether as he had suffered from it long before Red John, long before his marriage even. At least now his waking moments weren't filled with thoughts of blood and violence.

He and Lisbon never spoke about the Avery case again. Sometimes he was angry with her about the whole thing, but it was more than balanced with gratitude for what she had done for him. He knew that in the future there would be times when he was angry with Elizabeth for making him stay; that in frustration with the CBI's rules or the slow-grinding gears of the justice system or out of simple selfishness he would want to chuck it all and just walk away. But he was loath to even consider the possibility that he could break his promises to either woman, especially Lisbon. He knew that in his past life, he would have had no qualms about breaking his word and doing as he pleased. Rickety sort of honor, indeed.

The only discernable difference was in the way Lisbon treated him. She was very nice and polite, and she always listened to his theories and plans. She stopped yelling at him and hadn't threatened to do him bodily harm since they had returned to work.

Two weeks was all he could take.

It took him an entire day of complaining about the tea, doing magic tricks in the bullpen and walking into her office uninvited to get an eye roll out of her.

The next day, he refused to get up to accompany her to a crime scene until she growled and kicked his couch in frustration.

Calling her Tess earned him a glare, but when he called her "Woman" for the first time in weeks, she offered him that uniquely-Lisbon begrudging half-quirked smile.

Another week passed, and she was approaching normal, but he was missing just one thing from her. He had to go to extreme measures, but giving Mash her cell phone number really wasn't _so_ terrible. She could change it easily enough. Honestly, the woman would be relieved to be able to vent with the wild abandon she had enjoyed since the beginning of their acquaintance. He heard the little chirping sound of her ringtone come from her office.

"JANE!"

He stood up from the couch, stretched, and walked nonchalantly into her office.

**END**

**I know I've said it before, but I have LOVED writing this. Thanks so much to all who have read and reviewed and alert-ed and favorite-ed. I want to write another - actually have it in the works, but I'm not as prolific as some of you. Besides, I'm enjoying reading and rereading all of YOUR stories!**


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